


The Last Night of Tom Riddle

by angie_g



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: :))))), Kinda, One Shot, Sane Tom Riddle, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), creepy perverts who deserve what they got, i guess?, if you count starting a bar fight as sane, the moment when moody's dad had a crush on voldemort, tom ##### dumbledore over, tom's a lil ####
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angie_g/pseuds/angie_g
Summary: He was slightly buzzed, both from the alcohol and from the curse he placed on the Defense position. The fact that he'd started a bar fight helped too.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	The Last Night of Tom Riddle

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea thrown at me, and I juggled it around for a while before this spawned. Thank's to Evan (itsevanffs) for beta-ing the one shot!

"I'm sorry, my boy, but I cannot give the position to you," Dumbledore said gently, but sternly. Tom gritted his teeth, "Professor, if you would just reconsider---"

"I cannot let you be a Professor, Tom."

"My credentials--"

"--Are good enough to get you any job  _ but _ Professor."

Tom understood that he wouldn't get the position, no matter how much he would argue. He refused to sink any lower and beg the man. It would be the old goat’s own fault, depriving the future generations of his  _ brilliance _ . He got up, and coldly spat out a half-hearted farewell. Dumbledore nodded in return, his blue eyes twinkling annoyingly. How Tom dearly wished to see that twinkle, the light of life in his eyes, die out by his own hands. One can only dream.

Tom spun on his heel, and briskly made his way to the door. As he grasped the doorknob, he paused. A thought passed his mind, and he decided he might as well. He turned back to Dumbledore, a small smile on his face.

"You know, Professor," he said softly, startling Dumbledore with his sudden shift in tone, “I consider you alike to my father.”

"I---Well, thank you---" Dumbledore stammered, clearly not at all expecting such a confession. Tom showed his teeth.

"I hated him. _Despised_ him, really. With a burning, seething passion, much more than words can effectively convey," Tom continued offhandedly, as if talking about the weather and not the seething rage he harboured towards the scum that was his biological father. "He abandoned us; me and my mother. Never did think of us for another second after he left us to die. In fact, the first thing he did was call me a freak along other things when I sought him out many years later."

Tom opened the door, and stepped out. Just before he closed the door, he gave a sharp-toothed, malicious smile. "I killed him for it. Have a pleasant evening, Professor."

As the stairs descended to let him out, Tom gave himself a mental pat on the back. He had left Dumbledore, for the first time since he knew the old #######, speechless. It was a wonderful feeling. Tom, 1, Dumbledore…Well, who’s keeping count? He came out victorious, and that’s all that mattered.

Tom strolled leisurely down the halls of Hogwarts, wondering what else he could do while basking in his victory. He had already hid his precious Horcruxes under the Professor's wrinkly, crooked nose. What else could he do to bring the man more despair? Tom hummed pleasantly, as brilliant idea came to him. He made his way to the Defense classroom, and walked over to the Professor’s desk. He stepped behind it, rolling up the sleeves of his robe, and pulled out his wand.

Squatting down, he proceeded to carve in various lines of runes, making sure to pour as much magic as needed in certain lines. Once he finished, he sealed it with a password in Parseltongue. He stood up, and admired his handiwork. He waved his wand, hiding the runes from sight. He had placed runes that worked in such a way that only whomever came in contact with it on a frequent basis would get affected. It would cause misfortune upon them, enough for them to result in leaving the Defense post. By sealing it with a spell in Parseltongue, only he or any other Parselmouth could undo it. Satisfied, he brushed the remaining shaving aside from with his hand and vanished all traces of his brilliance. Pity no one would see his remarkable intelligence.

This was childish of him, he knew that, and he knew that he would greatly regret this one point or another. But, at the moment, he would bask in the glory of his win against the bane of his existence.

Tom looked out into the empty seats. He placed his hands on the Professor’s desk, and closed his eyes. He imagined the seats being filled with wide-eyed students, excited to learn from him. He dreamed about how wonderful it would be, teaching the truest forms of magic. How the future generations would be the most powerful and most brilliant of all previous generations.

Tom was startled out of his daydream by a soft cough. He turned to see a highly amused, twinkling eyed Headmaster. Tom cleared his throat and swiftly made his way past Dumbledore, hiding a faint flush of embarrassment at being caught with the back of his hand.

“Have a pleasant evening, Tom!” The ####### called after him. Tom didn’t dignify him with a proper response, instead opting for a tactical retreat as he brushed past and stormed away with a scowl. He didn’t run away, he wasn’t a coward! He just knew when to retreat; there was a difference!

Once out of the Hogwarts' wards, he Apparated to Hogsmeade. Putting on a quick glamour, he strolled into the Three Broomsticks, and took a seat at the crowded bar. He usually drank red wines, for the sake of appearances, but Tom craved a strong drink after the disaster that was the interview with Dumbledore. A foaming, golden drink slid in his general direction, and he grabbed it, taking a gulp. It was thunderbeer, Tom noted, as he relished the pleasant burning sensation flowing down his throat. He could let himself get a little buzzed today. He deserved it. Tomorrow…

Tom wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. Tomorrow, Lord Voldemort would rise. Dumbledore would regret not accepting Tom. He would regret the very moment they had met--

“Oi! You bloody wanker, ‘at was my drink!”

Tom turned to glare at the fool who dared interrupt his internal monologue and brooding. The man quickly realized he may have pissed off the wrong person and quickly raised his hands in placating manner.

“D-Don’t worry about it! You know what, I’ll buy it for you!” The man shoved five gallons in Tom’s direction, more than the drink cost, and scurried away.

Tom sighed, then took another drink of his thunderbeer. Tomorrow. He’d deal with the world, and all of its idiocies, tomorrow. Today, it was his last day as Tom, the half-blood nobody with a brilliant mind and a charming personality. Tomorrow, he would wake up as Lord Voldemort, Heir of Slytherin, soon to be the most feared Dark Lord in history. He would cleanse the world of the undeserving muggles and their spawns, who dare violate and mutilate the beautiful and elegant wizarding customs with their---

A drunken, middle-aged wizard was suddenly shoved into Tom, giggling, “Why, hello there, stranger. You look mighty fine! Mind a night with me?” He batted his eyelashes, in a way that was _supposed_ to be attractive, but just came off as the man having a rather violent and painful eye disease. Tom stared at him blankly, frustrated with everyone interrupting his brooding. He got up, dropped two gallons on the table, and finished his drink. He took one look at his empty mug, then back at the wizard who was attempting to grope his arm. He waved the bartender over and dropped the remaining three gallons in her hand.

“Apologies in advance,” he said politely, then smashed the mug onto the wizard’s face, just before the man’s hand traveled any lower. The man dropped to the ground with a nonsensical moan of pain, and someone, assumedly his friend, rushed to his aid. His friend, a middle aged witch, perhaps his sister, raised her wand at him angrily, and snarled, “You  _ ####### _ !”

“I assure you, my parents were married when I was conceived.” Tom gave a pleasant smile, which caused the witch to retaliate with a barrage of spells. Tom skillfully dodged and block each spell, while ignoring the bartender’s cries of ruining her bar. He _might_ have let a stray spell or two hit the bystanders, and soon, the fight escalated with the whole bar cursing and jixing each other.

Tom, satisfied with the chaos he caused, quietly slipped out, just as the Aurors came. Removing his glamor, he tidied himself up as an Auror brushed past him in a hurry. Grasping the Auror’s shoulder, Tom asked, “Might I ask what all of the commotion is?”

“A-a fight broke out in-in the Three Broomsticks. S-Some bloke apparently smashed a drunkard in the face with a-a beer glass and started a fight,” The Auror stammered out, blushing under Tom’s inquisitive yet charming stare. Tom faked a look of concern, “Oh my, was the perpetrator caught?”

“W-well, no, I don’t think so. Sneaked off. If you see a suspicious looking man with, ah,” The man took out an enchanted notepad, which was currently being written in by his partner with a connected pad, “Auburn hair, bearded, and blue eyes, be sure to tell me. In fact, here’s my Auror ID number!” The man handed Tom a card that had his information, after quickly scribbling on it. Tom raised his eyebrows as the card not only contained his Auror/business information, but also his personal floo connection address. The corners of Tom’s lips quirked, as he slipped the card into his robe’s breast pocket after reading the name. Auror Benedict Moody, huh?

The man blushed at Tom’s amusement, “Y-you know, just in case if you want to grab a drink together or something…” He trailed off, mumbling. Tom chuckled.

“I’m flattered, Auror Moody. But… Shouldn’t you…?” Tom gestured in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, just as a stool flew through the window.

Auror Moody cursed under his breath, and ran off after excusing himself, and throwing in a, “Call me Benedict!” Tom gave a small wave, and turned on his heel, walking away. He was slightly buzzed, both from the alcohol and from the curse he placed on the Defense position. The fact that he'd started a bar fight helped too.

He smirked, he wondered what everyone’s reactions would be when they realized that the man who had started the fight looked _awfully_ like the famous Defeater of Grindelwald.

Tom whistled, as he listened to the wonderful sounds of screaming, things breaking, and spellfire behind him. It was his last night as Tom Riddle; he had the right to indulge himself, didn't he?

**Author's Note:**

> Guys you have no idea how bad it was before. Evan saved my ###.


End file.
